Crazy Love (17 page)

CHAPTER

19

R
UNNING…
was not…a good…idea.

Dylan doubled over, pulling free from Skeeter’s hand and falling to his knees on Whitfield’s lawn. The grass was cool, wet, the slight breeze a blessing—the pain crawling up the back of his skull just one more bad sign in a night that had gone to hell and wasn’t coming back.

“Dylan. Get up. Come on. Help me.” She pulled at him, trying to get her shoulder under his arm.

It wasn’t going to work.

“I need a minute.” Or an hour, day, week, month.

He’d made it to the catering van okay, except for those last few feet, but he’d still been high back then. Now he was low, bottomed out, sinking, and running was not working for him—at all.

“Come on. We’re only fifty yards from the Mercedes. Then we’re home free.” She pulled at him again, and he gave it his all, staggering to his feet. Even half dead, he could do fifty yards, and he definitely felt half dead. The lovely rush he’d had inside Whitfield’s vault had worn off with a vengeance. This feeling, this you’re-going-to-die-feeling-like-a-piece-of-crap feeling, that was what he’d been expecting. It was pure Sumba, baby, especially with the addition of the jagged-pike-buried-in-the-back-of-your-skull feeling.

But he could do fifty yards.

He’d sure as hell done that Jai Traon tango back in the office, blown that sucker straight to hell. So there was one bright spot in the evening.

She brushed him off and straightened his bow tie again, because God knew, they were not the only people running around on Whitfield’s lawn. There were hundreds. Besides the caterers and the valets, besides the drivers and the waiters, he’d seen SWAT, and EMTs, the D.C. Metro Police, Secret Service—they were the good-looking ones—and a couple of CIA guys—who were not the good-looking ones—FBI—the men in black, in short, everybody except the National Guard, and they were probably on their way. There was nothing like a couple of dead insurgents in a senator’s house with a vault door hanging open to really rile up Washington, D.C.’s alphabet soup of agencies. Once that first subgun had gone off, it had been all over except the shouting—and the shouting was going on in full force.

But he’d gotten the job done. Skeeter had taken the Godwin file from him and stowed it inside her uniform. So now all they had to do was get to the Mercedes. He’d had the sense not to leave his jacket in the vault, so over all, he looked just like every other guy running around outside on the lawn in a tuxedo with a drop-dead gorgeous blond chauffeur holding him up. Right. All one of those guys.

Fifty yards.

He could do it.

TRAVIS
tried not to groan again, and failed.

God,
Red Dog was in so much trouble here. If she’d had any idea, she’d be crawling out the window and running for cover, instead of trying to immolate him on the spot.

But, man, her hands were small and hot and sliding over his chest, and he was down for the count, going under, so ready for her. He’d gotten hard the instant she’d opened her mouth on his, and every instant after had only made his arousal that much more intense. He was a guy. He knew about getting hard fast, but this was crazy.

And he liked it, a lot—crazy, hot, and sexual. Even crammed into the front seat of a Civic, it was all going so incredibly well, like fate was saying “Take this woman and make her yours.”

He could do it. Hell, with the kind of cooperation he was getting, he could do anything, and in half the space.

A small grin curved his lips. He loved a challenge.

One-handed, he gathered up her sensible khaki skirt, giving himself access to the satiny skin underneath, and it was all so easy. With his other hand, he slid under her sensible khaki shirt and unsnapped her bra. Then he moved his palm around to cup her breast, and she let him.

She not only let him, she sighed in his mouth, which was awesome. He deepened the kiss, loving the feel of her, the sheer mind-blowing softness of her skin. Sometimes sex was making love, sometimes it was sex, and sometimes it was sweet, and hot, and perfect.

This felt like one of those sweet-hot-perfect times, when two people were just so incredibly in sync, and yeah, he could get in sync with her in half the space, but with a little effort, they could have twice the space—front seat and back seat.

“Hold on, honey. We’re moving.”

Keeping one arm around her, he reached down and pulled the seat lever, taking them horizontal, and there she was, flat out on top of him—all of her, on all of him.

Life, he decided, was going to go on, despite ambushes and knife fights and any throats he’d slit. By some miracle, flying halfway across the country had gotten him the one thing he’d needed, a warm, willing, and wonderfully responsive woman in his arms—and Red Dog felt very willing, maybe even a little desperate, but he could relate to desperate. He knew what it was like.

“You okay?” he asked, not that the seat’s ride down had been too wild. The inside of a Civic wasn’t big enough to catch much vertical space.

“Um hmmm,” she murmured between kisses, his kisses and hers. The girl was with him on this. She was with him all the way, and they were headed for the record. “Should we talk? I don’t know, it seems that…”

“That we’re moving at the speed of light. I know. Sure. We can talk.” Whatever she wanted. He liked to talk, but not as much as he liked Gillian Pentycote. He wanted to take her right over the edge with him. He wanted her mouth on him. He wanted her panting. He wanted the heat.

He wanted to be inside her until she came. The need was driving him, and he couldn’t remember anything like it ever coming on him so hard and fast.

Maybe he was feeding off the desperate edge he felt inside her. Maybe he was making it his own. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered except what they were doing to each other.

He moved onto his side and let her slide down next to him in the seat. Then he took her face in his hands and just started from the top all over again. If she wanted to think, she was welcome. If she wanted to talk, he was ready, but he was going to talk while he took her clothes off, and all he wanted to think about was getting inside her.

This wasn’t sex.

This was survival. He wanted to make love to her, and all she had to do was let him…let him—

“Travis? Mr. James?”

“Hmmm?” He slid his mouth across the top of her cheek and started unbuttoning her sensible khaki blouse.

“I’m sure we should…talk, I mean, I don’t want you to think I do this with every guy who…who takes his shirt off in my car.”

“Honey, I’m not thinking anything. At all. Guaranteed.”

That got him another softly breathless laugh, and he grinned against her skin.

“You think that’s funny?”

“I think this is crazy, to feel so crazy.”

“Yeah. Me, too, and I’m loving it.”

She laughed again even more softly, against his throat, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He moved his hands over her, cupping her breasts with his palms, trying to tell her with every touch how beautiful she was to him. Then he slid one hand down over the curve of her hip and back up under her skirt, and just let himself fall in love with the way she felt.

His friend Nikki, the artist who painted him, was always talking about his angles and his triangles, and how they all worked together artistically. She’d even taken photographs of him once and drawn triangles on them, showing him how all his parts fit together, big parts, little parts, his eyes, and nose, and mouth, his biceps, triceps, pecs, his quads, and his six-pack. She’d drawn over all of them, layering on triangles, explaining why those particular angles made him perfect.

Nikki was nuts.

Perfect was the curve under his hand, the utterly divine curve of Red Dog’s waist down over her hip and around her ass, which was another particularly amazing curve. She was layered in curves. The only triangle on her was the one he slid his hand over at the juncture of her thighs—and it was perfect.

She gasped, a soft catch of breath, her hips lifting toward him—so sweet, and it was everything he needed to know. This was happening. They were going to take it home.

Deepening the kiss, he gently parted her with his fingers, and felt her groan in his mouth. He’d wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to put his mouth between her legs and kiss her, French kiss her until she came. He wanted everything, and it was all within reach, because she hadn’t pulled away, and she was wonderfully, amazingly, erotically wet.

TOO
far, too fast,
Gillian thought. Everything was going too far, getting out of hand, moving too fast, but she didn’t want to stop.

Somehow, kissing had turned into so much more, and it all felt so incredibly right, to let this stranger take off her clothes and touch her every where. It felt like coming home after a long, long absence, and how could that be? She didn’t even know this man.

“Skeeter said you were an angel.” And Gillian was beginning to wonder if it was really true. Who but an angel could make her feel this way?

A small laugh escaped him.

He kissed her face one more time and lifted his head. A smile was curving his mouth. He was hot and hard against her, and he was smiling. That alone was beyond any experience she’d ever had.

“You’re the angel, Gillian, not me.” He leaned down and brushed his lips across her cheek. His hair was so soft, sliding down the length of her neck, across her collarbone, and drifting over her breast. Then his mouth was there, sucking on her.

When he brought his lips back to hers, they were warm.

“You’re so beautiful, Gillian,” he whispered against her mouth. “And tonight, you feel like a gift. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

He didn’t have to explain. She felt the same thing, that he was a gift to her, something to hold on to, something to take inside herself—and she so wanted to take him inside her.

“Kiss me again,” she whispered, pulling his mouth back to hers. “Kiss me.”

TRAVIS
did. He kissed her over and over, teasing her with his fingers, playing with her, until she melted with a soft sigh that went straight to his head. The sex was getting hot, but he wanted it hotter. Needed it hotter.

“Gillian, honey, I need you to—” He lifted her toward the backseat, and she immediately understood and scooted in that direction, and between the two of them, they managed to organize themselves across a very small space into a position where he could peel her panties off and indulge himself.

Every moment from then on moved at a luxurious pace, his whole world sliding wholeheartedly and without resistance into the sensations of heat and wonder and Gillian.

Her breasts, the inside of her wrist, her hips, her stomach, between her thighs, inside her soft curls and all that incredibly soft, silky skin that drove her wild every time he teased her with his tongue—she tasted sublime everywhere, but even with him taking his time to explore every nuance of her response, she came much too quickly, in a small torrent of cries, more than half of which were his name.

“Travis…Travis—oh my, God, Mr. James.”

He had never in his life had a woman call him mister anything while he was making love to her, and it was just quirky enough to count as kinky and be a little extra bit of a turn-on, which made him kiss her again, just because she was so sweet with the Mr. James.

It was definitely what he’d needed, and definitely where he’d wanted her, her hands tangled in his hair, her body pulsing with the pleasure he’d given her, his name on her lips, everything about her soft and hot and so ready to take him.

He reached down and unlaced his boots. When they were off, he unzipped his fly and pushed off his pants. Then he came down on top of her, slowly, being careful with his weight and sliding one of her legs around his waist.

She was easy to find.

With his mouth on hers, he pushed inside, taking his time, wanting to feel everything.

Geezus.
He hadn’t thought he could get any harder, but with every inch that he went deeper, he proved himself wrong, and just like with her, he didn’t think this whole “first time” was going to last nearly long enough to suit him.

Cradling her face with one of his hands, he reached for a handful of sweaters and T-shirts with his other.

“Lift up,” he whispered against her lips, and when she did, he shoved the clothes underneath her hips.

Her lashes lifted to reveal soft brown eyes glazed with passion, and a slow grin curved his mouth.

This was a perfect angle.

“Hi,” he said, slowly moving in and out of her, loving the mind-bending sensation of being inside her.

She was so lush, so beautiful—so soft and tight.

“Hi,” she whispered.

Her mouth was wet, her hair a mess, her whole face flushed.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded.

Still holding her gaze, he pulled partway out and slid up into her again. This was unexpected, this kind of bone-melting heat. He bent his head down and opened his mouth on her neck, grazing her with his teeth as he thrust into her again. Her skin was salty, damp, the taste of her melting on his tongue. He rocked into her, over and over, and she tightened her leg around his waist, her hands sliding through his hair, holding him to her…holding him. A soft gasp escaped from deep in her throat, and the sound sent heat sliding down his spine to settle in his groin, to settle in his balls.